(TAYLOR HEBERT) CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The hospital wing of the PRT headquarters was quieter than the rest of the building, though not entirely silent. There was a constant undercurrent of subdued noise, the squeak of rubber soles against polished floors, the roll of carts, the distant whirr of ventilation, the murmurs from passing staff, and the intermittent beeping of monitors that tracked the heartbeats and oxygen levels of the injured.

Taylor slowed as she approached the room number Miss Militia had directed her to.

The door was not fully closed.

She had not meant to eavesdrop, but the voices inside carried clearly enough into the hallway.

“I’m fully capable of reviewing reports from this bed,” Armsmaster was saying, his tone tight with obvious annoyance. “If you would simply bring me a terminal—”

“And I’m fully capable of telling you no,” the nurse replied, unflustered and entirely unimpressed. “Yes, you are fully healed, but we still need to monitor you for some time. You will remain in bed.”

“I can work around that.”

“You will not.”

There was a pause, followed by what sounded like the distinct, frustrated exhale of a man who was not accustomed to being told no.

Taylor had to bite down on the inside of her cheek to stop herself from smiling.

For someone who was exemplified by a stern and uncompromising personality most of the time, there was something unexpectedly human about listening to him argue with a nurse over enforced rest. It stripped away some of the mythic distance she had unconsciously placed between them, making him seem less like a living legend in that moment and more like a stubborn man who hated being unproductive.

It made him easier to approach.

She knocked gently against the doorframe.

The conversation stopped at once.

The nurse turned first, assessing her with a quick, professional glance before stepping aside. “Five minutes,” she said to Armsmaster, though her eyes darted to Taylor and her dad. “And no sitting up without support.”

Armsmaster made a noncommittal sound that clearly meant he had no intention of complying.

The nurse left after brief greetings were exchanged, brushing past Taylor and offering her dad a polite nod as she went.

He settled into a chair by the wall, folding his hands in his lap in a way that suggested he intended to be present but unobtrusive. It gave Taylor a measure of privacy, or at least the illusion of it, which she appreciated, especially since she knew he would intervene when necessary.

Armsmaster, on the other hand, looked… annoyed.

Even propped up against the pillows of the hospital bed, and without the armor—though he still had on a generic mask to protect his secret identity—he gave off an air of authority, as though the absence of steel and circuitry did nothing to diminish the force of his presence.

She stepped further into the room and came to a stop beside the bed.

And then, unexpectedly, she found herself unable to speak.

The words she had rehearsed in her head on the walk over scattered without warning. She had come here with the clear intention of checking on him and making sure he was all right, yet now that she was standing in front of him, she found herself tongue-tied.

Was she simply being shy? Or was she bracing herself for a reaction she might not like? For a reprimand, perhaps, for taking risks she had not fully understood. For a reminder that she had taken a lot of liberties in the fight, and that it was only her luck that it had not ended badly.

Armsmaster studied her for a moment, and something in his expression changed, as though he recognized the hesitation for what it was. Then, he adjusted himself into a more comfortable position, ignoring the nurse’s parting instruction. 

“Thank you, Ms. Hebert, for saving my life,” he said, his voice uncharacteristically subdued.

“I have spoken to Dragon,” he continued, “and reviewed the available footage. I can say with a reasonable degree of certainty that I would not be here if it were not for your actions. So thank you.”

For a moment, Taylor could do nothing but stare at him.

Armsmaster was not simply another cape in Brockton Bay. He was one of the Protectorate’s most prominent figures, a hero whose name carried weight even beyond the city’s limits. Someone who could stand beside the Triumvirate and not be completely overshadowed. 

And he was thanking her.

Her throat tightened unexpectedly, and before she could stop herself, her vision blurred. She blinked rapidly, unwilling to embarrass herself by crying in a hospital room under the gaze of a man she respected so greatly.

“It wasn’t just me,” she managed, her voice softer than she intended. “You were the one who figured out what she was after. I just… acted.”

“That does not diminish your role,” he replied evenly.

The simple acknowledgment broke whatever fragile composure she had been clinging to, and a watery, genuine smile tugged at her lips.

They spent the rest of the visit discussing the watch.

With the more personal part of the exchange concluded, the conversation shifted naturally into something more comfortable for both of them. Taylor described the various functions of the watch she had discovered so far, the transformations she had accessed, and the limitations she suspected but had not yet tested. Armsmaster listened easily, occasionally asking technical questions that forced her to think more carefully about what she had experienced.

He seemed particularly interested in the potential of the alien she had used to upgrade his armor, and whether the device drew power from an internal source or some external reservoir she had yet to identify. When she admitted she did not know, he did not chastise her. Instead, he nodded thoughtfully, already extrapolating possibilities.

“There will need to be controlled testing,” he said at one point, almost to himself, “to ascertain just how powerful your transformations are, and the source of the watch’s power.”

The familiar curtness had returned to his voice, but it didn't feel distant or intimidating. She now knew that was simply how he normally spoke.

Still, even as she nodded automatically, something in her chest tightened all the same. Controlled testing meant oversight and more people knowing more things about her. 

She told herself that was reasonable. Sensible, even. Powers like hers weren’t something you experimented with in alleyways, and she was already an outed cape, so it didn't really matter. 

But…

“PRT testing?” she asked, carefully. 

His eyes narrowed, intense enough to suggest he understood what she was really asking.

“Don’t worry,” he said. "Only certain people will have access to your files.”

That… was fine.

She was publicly known, and the world—or at least the Protectorate—already had a claim on her. What mattered now was that the people with access were competent, trustworthy, and capable of handling the knowledge responsibly.

She nodded, feeling the tension in her chest ease. It wasn’t thrilling, exactly, but it was acceptable. Necessary, even. She could work with this.

By the time the nurse reappeared at the door with a pointed look at the clock, the two of them were still in a deep discussion.

Taylor stepped back from the bed reluctantly.

“I should let you rest,” she said.

Armsmaster inclined his head in acknowledgement of her words. “Recovery is, regrettably, unavoidable.”

She hesitated, then added, “When you’re discharged… we could test the watch properly. And maybe work on some projects. If you want.”

A hint of something that might have been approval crossed his expression.

“I would welcome that,” he said.

Her dad rose from his chair, offering Armsmaster a polite nod as Taylor moved toward the door.

“I’ll visit again,” she promised, the words slipping out before she could overthink them.

“I will hold you to that,” he replied.

She left the room feeling even lighter than she had when she entered, carrying with her the reassurance that at least one of the heroes she had once placed beyond reach had proven to be human in the ways that mattered.

It did not erase everything she had seen, and it did not answer every doubt, but it gave her hope that perhaps, in time, others would too.